She brushed a curl out of her eyes. The heat felt oppressive today. “So do you think it’s true? The slaves knew magic?”
Tobias plucked a leaf from the vines that wound around the trunk. “She talks about something called John the Conquerer. It was a plant with magical properties. The Ranulfs suspected that their slaves used it to torment them at night. With the plant’s power, they could move around quickly and undetected. Over time, some used it to organize escape routes to Canada.”
Fiona turned the page. Pearl had drawn a flowering plant with bell-shaped blossoms.
“The Ranulfs started to punish the slaves with increasingly severe beatings,” Tobias continued. “Over time, the slaves used the Conquerer to organize, get supplies together. Some figured out how to escape in the night.”
Under a sketched plant leaf, Pearl had scrawled A witch’s feast. Fiona traced her finger over the curling leaves and petals. “Do you think John the Conquerer still grows around here?”
Alan shrugged. “It’s possible, but Pearl did everything she could to get rid of it. When she caught a black farmer named Isaac selling it in 1892, she told the police he’d broken into her house. It was her little way of combating witchcraft. He was beaten and hanged by a mob.” He scratched his neck. “Not far from here.”
Fiona turned another page and gasped. Glued to the black pages were sepia postcards, but instead of depicting scenic views or art, they were photographs of people murdered by mobs: burned men contorted on pavement, others hanging in nooses from trees or streetlights, or lying lifeless on the ground. There were a few women in bloodied and torn dresses, dangling from trees, and a victim burning on a pyre surrounded by men in suits and women in floral blouses. The bystanders grinned at the cameras, like they were at a parade. “What is this? Some kind of Purgator thing?”
Alan shook his head. “An American thing. Lynching postcards were popular a hundred years ago.”
Her stomach turned. “What kind of psychopath would want a lynching postcard? This is horrible.” She flipped to the next page. In one of the crowds, a woman in a headscarf stared at the camera. Behind her a young man hung from a tree, his face beaten beyond recognition. Fiona’s eyes lingered on the woman—her sunken eyes and pale skin. Unlike the other cheerful idiots, she didn’t seem to be having any fun.
“The cellar they mentioned,” Alan mused. “That could be the institution. I bet it’s through the crypt door. And that’s where Mariana’s being kept.”
“We can at least try out the two spells,” said Tobias. “They might do something for us.”
The shadows lengthened as the sun lowered over the river. They’d need to return to their rooms soon for bedroom checks.
Fiona scanned the postcards again. In one, a crowd leered at the camera, this time surrounding a charred body chained to a tree. Among the gawkers was the woman with that haunted face again, her hair covered in a scarf. There was something familiar about her.
“I say we try the spells tomorrow,” said Alan. “Mrs. Ranulf is on high alert for witchcraft now. But tomorrow everyone will be too distracted with party preparations to notice what we’re up to. Mr. Ranulf is coming back, and Munroe will be getting herself ready for her hot date with Tobias.”
“Guys.” Fiona flipped to more gruesome postcards, her skin prickling into goose bumps. Again she’d found the doleful woman, her sad eyes open wide. “The same person is in all these photos.”
“What?” Alan peered over her shoulder.
It wasn’t just the photos. Fiona had seen her face before. The hollow eyes, the anguished twist of her mouth. A chill ran up her spine. “Guys—it’s the crypt monster.”
“No way,” Alan whispered.
In the distance, Munroe’s voice called out, “Tobias?”
“The Fury?” Tobias pulled the book toward him. “That’s what Mrs. Ranulf called her. A Fury.”
Fiona’s arm brushed against his. “What is a Fury?” Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
“Tobias?” Munroe was drawing closer though the trees.
He shoved the book back into Alan’s bag, handing it back to his friend. “They’re spirits of vengeance, drawn to terrible injustices. Whatever the Purgators are using her for, Pearl must have lured her here with that lynching she orchestrated. Then they captured her.”
Munroe’s footfalls crunched over fallen leaves and twigs.
“But what are they doing with a Fury?” whispered Fiona.
Before Tobias could answer, Munroe appeared at the edge of the grove, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was a deep russet in the setting sun, cascading over her green sundress. “What are you guys doing here? We’re supposed to be finishing our costumes for the party.” She glared at Fiona. “You wouldn’t want people thinking you were sneaking around, would you? It’s not exactly a good time to raise suspicions.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jack